FW 1945: Not Fish They Are After
by Wolseley37
Summary: Set in July of '45. Sam makes a decision, and Foyle thinks he knows why she's hanging about. When she accompanies him to the river, he catches more than trout.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** FW 1945: Not Fish They Are After

 **Author:** Wolseley37

 **Disclaimer** _ **:**_ _Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle and Samantha jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen and Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks. No infringement intended.

 **Response/Feedback:** Always appreciated!

 **A/N:** Set in July 1945 around the time when Foyle is waiting for his replacement DCS and Sam is at the guest house. Does not tie in with canon. Just for fun.  
Written for the incorrigible (her word) **_GiuliettaC_** on the occasion of her birthday, though she had to help polish it up. Many thanks!

There have been some exceptionally hot days in England during this summer of 2016. No doubt many of our British friends have sought out a cool, quiet, shady spot by a river for a little refreshing relief from the heat.

* * *

 _"_ _Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after."  
_ Henry David Thoreau

Chapter 1

It had commenced with a minor mystery, continued as a comedy of errors, contained a touch of farce, and concluded in, well, a love story. The errors were his, arising when he'd associated in his mind two quite separate events and mistakenly linked them together. Something he'd never have done in a police investigation, but in his private life… Well, this had proven, if he needed any more proof, that, in matters of the heart, he was as fallible as the next chap.

The minor mystery: an otherwise quiet Friday afternoon in July was interrupted when a clattering noise of something falling onto the pavement drew Foyle's attention from reading the post. And then he could've sworn he'd heard Sam's voice outside his front door. Except it was not very likely to be hers since the feminine tones seemed to be cursing, albeit in a plaintive way. He'd left his chair, setting aside a letter from Andrew, and gone to open the door. Nobody there.

But he thought he'd caught a glimpse of movement fleeing around the corner, and then his eye had fallen on a scattering of flakey crumbs at his feet. Odd. Had someone used his front steps as a resting place after climbing the slope up Steep Lane, and partaken of some pastry they'd obtained at the shops? It actually wasn't unusual for pedestrians to sit and rest there, the first convenient seat at the top of the road, but they didn't usually leave anything behind.

He'd shut the door, put it out of his mind and gone back to his reading. Andrew's letter said he'd soon be down from London for a visit, and that he had some personal news he believed his father would be particularly pleased to hear.

The next morning, Saturday, after he'd finished his uninspired breakfast of tea and toast and was looking over the newspaper in the sitting room, there was a knock at his door. He opened it and there stood Sam in a pretty, floral-patterned, belted summer frock, beaming a friendly smile and bearing a cloth-wrapped package. A faint blush coloured her cheeks and she was a little out of breath, no doubt from the climb up the hill.

"Good morning! I've brought you a pie!"

" _Er_...oh! Well. Unexpected. Do come in."  
He stood back and she slipped past him into the hall, continuing, "It was so kind of you to bring us the trout last week, I felt I ought to reciprocate."

Following her to the kitchen he protested mildly, "But... I had them, too…"

"Well, _eventually_. It was so embarrassing that neither of us had turned the oven up. Basic communication with Adam isn't always successful, I've found."

"Didn't you... _em_...'inadvertently' mention he'd worked in code breaking?" He turned and faced his former driver across the table with an ironically raised eyebrow.

Sam grinned, "Yes."  
Then went on, "It seems I have the wrong code. We're often talking at cross purposes."  
She'd set the pie down on the table and now uncovered it with a flourish and a smile of modest pride. It was still warm from the oven.  
Foyle smiled, too. Not only because it looked very good - a golden lattice crust and a generous filling of red cherries that set his mouth watering - but also because he suspected this might be at least the second one she'd baked in two days. Tilting his head, he spied a dent in the tin pie plate.

Sam explained breezily,  
"There's a neglected old Morello cherry tree behind the guest house. I picked the best of the lot. And I found a large glass bottle of pre-War sugar hidden in an upper cupboard, along with other supplies no one had bothered to look for. Can you imagine?"

His smile grew as he pictured her up a stepladder and down on hands and knees, diligently rummaging through every corner of the guest house.  
Then he heaved a mock sigh,  
"Wull, hoarding food is still an offence, but if no one knew it was there and the place has been vacant since the aunt passed away, difficult to lay a charge against anyone. ...Sso _you're_ safe."  
She gave him a sidelong glance bordering on an eyeroll and they both smirked.  
"...This looks _wonderful_ , Sam. Thank-you. Did you, _er_ , bake one for the others...?"  
He raised his eyes to hers, and saw they were positively sparkling with good spirits. He wouldn't let on what he suspected about yesterday's mystery.

"Yyyes, yes, I did. Though…, I may not be there much longer." She said lightly.

"Oh?" His brows bent with the question.

Sam stared down at the pie, sobering a little,  
"Well, the guest house seems rather a hopeless case, I'm afraid, and I wondered how much help I could really be to Adam. It...wasn't a matter of letting him down. More a case of whether I wanted to sink with him. I decided I didn't." She glanced up at him, "I...just felt the situation wasn't my responsibility. My suggestion was he should sell the place and try to get some value out of it before it crashes down around his ears."

Outwardly Foyle showed only a mild friendly interest, but inwardly he was surprised at the sudden buoyant sensation in his heart.

Sam looked at him in appeal and asked quietly, "Do you think I was wrong...to…?"

He raised his eyebrows, "W'oh...it's...not my place to comment."

Nonetheless Sam continued to defend her position, with an air of summing up,  
"Adam's a pleasant young man, but… To tell the truth, we've had several disagreements. Well, rows, actually. I don't understand him. I don't think he understands himself. I felt it would be best to leave him to it."

Contradicting his previous remark, he said with a moue, " _Mm_...Better to come to that realisation sooner rather than _later._.."

Foyle recalled Sam making a similar confession to him a few years ago, when she had rejected the marriage offer of a young American soldier. He wondered, in passing, if she had any girlfriends to discuss such things with. Surely he wasn't her only confidant in matters of the heart.  
And, raising the curtain on the comedy of errors, he wondered if her decision regarding the guest house and its owner, and her coming to tell him about it now, didn't have something to do with Andrew's imminent arrival. Had they exchanged letters, or talked and reconciled on the phone? Was Sam about to give his son a second chance?

"Yes, that's what I thought."  
It seemed she was answering his unspoken question, and he smiled knowingly at her.  
Sam met his eyes with gratitude, then concluded,  
"So here I am."  
She watched him expectantly.

"...Here you _are_. Withth...a pie." Foyle pursed his lips, amused.  
He'd been about to add, _'Andrew will be pleased,'_ in a little display of perspicacity, but was prevented by the ringing of the telephone. When he'd returned from the call - it was Hugh inviting him for a round of golf next week - he found Sam had kept herself busy. _'Ingratiating herself as a prospective daughter-in-law?'_ He allowed himself a private smirk. She had washed up his breakfast things and given the kitchen a light going over. Now she stood leaning back against the counter, quite at home, and asked him casually,  
"Have you any plans for the day?"

"Just, _em_ , get the shopping in. Perhaps the river later."

"Well, I can help you with the shopping." She replied with eagerness, and then hinted broadly, "It's expected to be _quite_ warm this afternoon. The riverbank would be lovely and cool and quiet, wouldn't it?"

Normally he'd put up at least a token show of resistance to her angling for an invitation, but if Andrew's news was what he surmised, he'd best get used to being on more 'familial' terms with Samantha.  
" _Erm_...If you've nothing else to do…" he agreed, then with a pointed look added for good measure, "'Quiet' being the operative word, mind you."  
Her face lit up and to show she understood, she made a key locking motion of her fingers over her lips. Foyle gave in to a fond, inverted smile.

They'd selected and bargained and queued at various shops for a couple of hours, Foyle noting that the shopkeepers seemed to find better offerings when Sam did the talking. Everyone they met remarked on the fine weather or later began complaining of the heat. As they finished at the greengrocer's even Foyle was pressing a handkerchief to the sheen on his brow.

They brought his purchases home, and then Sam made up a picnic lunch and a flask of tea to share by the river. Throughout their morning errands Foyle hadn't mentioned Andrew and neither had Sam. He would leave it to the two of them to make any announcement regarding their plans, whether simply a trial period or something more definite.  
After choosing a few likely flies from his tackle box, and assembling his creel, waders and rod, he selected a slim novel from his bookshelves for Sam to read while he fished, popped his old green trilby on his head, and they set off companionably in his car.

 _tbc..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** FW 1945: Not Fish They Are After, Chapter 2

 **Author:** Wolseley37

 **Disclaimer** _ **:**_ _Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle and Samantha jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen and Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks. No infringement intended.

 **Response/Feedback:** Always appreciated!

* * *

Chapter 2

Foyle, at his customary and preferred spot along the river, stood in shirtsleeves, multi-pocketed fishing waistcoat and waders, calf-deep in the steady-flowing water, watching the sensitive tip of his fly rod. Its quivering told him expressively the interest of the elusive yet nearby trout, or if it was time to cast again.  
Despite his serious focus on his favourite off-duty pastime, he was very aware that Sam was twenty feet away lying prone on the tartan rug they'd spread on the grass under a shady tree. His last glance in her direction had imprinted on his mind the enchanting image of her slender form glowing golden in a patch of sunlight, one alabaster leg bent at the knee and her bare foot slowly waving up and down in the air. Setting his hat back off his brow with a sigh, he thought to himself, _'Andrew would be a bloody fool if he let this beautiful, charming girl slip through his fingers a second time.'_

Since he'd donned his waders and first cast his line, Sam had proven true to her word, or rather her gesture, and had remained silent or only spoken softly. She seemed to be perfectly content with enjoying the beauty and tranquility of the place. ...Unlike his son, who was given to muttering frequent impatient complaints and peevish questions whenever there wasn't a fish on the line.

Sam had quite willingly begun reading the book he'd brought, too. _The Wife of Martin Guerre_ was a fairly new American novel he'd picked up at a charity sale, apparently left behind by an officer at a decommissioned U. S. Army camp. Based on a true historical incident, the novel recounted the events surrounding the disappearance and reappearance of a French farmer, and the subsequent accusation and discovery, after some years, that the returned man, although a kinder, fairer, more considerate husband and landowner, was an impostor. Foyle's own interest in the book had been in the descriptions of 16th century legal arguments, circumstantial evidence and the effects of justice. But he'd thought Sam might be sympathetically affected by the novel's account of the religious, moral and emotional struggles of the young wife. And indeed another glance over to the spot showed her to be engrossed in the book.

Foyle checked his wristwatch and smiled to himself, musing that it was half past one and Sam hadn't given any indication that she was ready to unpack their picnic lunch. Whereas in fact his own stomach had been growling intermittently for a while now.  
Though he had quickly landed three decent-sized trout - to Sam's delight and admiration - soon after taking up his stance in the shallows, things had then gone quiet for the better part of an hour. He wanted to try for one more before finally reeling in his line. Sam could have two and he'd take a brace home as well.

With his renewed full attention on this pursuit, Foyle was unaware that Sam had got up, stretched her limbs, and wandered down to the riverbank. His focus was upstream where, with a few deft flicks of the rod he had tickled the surface with his fly and then made a long cast, laying his line on the water and waiting for a fish to take the hook. As the line drifted on the current, there at last was the telltale flicker, splash and pull, and he began playing the fish closer, winding the reel, and stepping deeper into the flowing water for a better view.  
He murmured soft, encouraging directions to the trout, and as it complied he looked over his left shoulder for the net that he'd set down on the bank. It wasn't there. He turned his head around to the right - and gave a start. Sam had crept up silently beside him and was knee deep in the river, holding the net upright before her and staring intently at the water.

What had made him start was the transformation of her dress. She had gathered and hitched her skirts, pulling the back hem of the frock up between her legs and tucking it into the front of her belt, like an old-fashioned winkle gatherer. However the result was that Sam's shapely thighs were as much exposed as they'd be in the most daring of modern bathing costumes.  
His jaw dropped at the unexpected display of feminine flesh and he stumbled a step or two away from her, embarrassed by the improper, primal rush that surged through him, and the physical symptoms of it effectively showcased between the stiff tops of his hip waders.  
Sam was oblivious, following him with the net held high, perhaps thinking this little dance was part of his method for reeling in a trout. Entirely distracted from the fish on his line, he stepped blindly away again on the uneven bottom, the river rising higher on his waders. Focused on the trout, Sam followed him still, while his bulging eyes were fascinated by the alluring spectacle of foaming, sparkling water splashing up over her thighs, wetting the light cotton fabric of her frock.

And then with one more sideways step the farcical element of his weekend began.  
His left foot slid off the edge of the flat stone outcropping, turning his ankle and plunging him downwards an unexpected eight inches. The river surged over and into the left leg of his hip-boot waders, pulling him completely off balance. Arms windmilling, he fell stumbling back in slow motion into the waist-deep water. His single blunt curse, as well as Sam's cry of dismay, were cut off as his head went under.

It was a bit of a thrashing struggle to get to the surface, but with both legs of the waders now submerged he managed to get his feet below him and thrust his head upwards for air before the shock of the icy cold caused an involuntary underwater gasp. The current helpfully pushed him towards the stone ledge again where he got up onto one knee and braced himself with his other foot to prevent an additionally comical toppling forwards. He half-stifled a whoop forced out of him by the frigid water, and gave his head a rapid shake to clear his eyes.

There was Sam, a hand clapped over her mouth and the other holding the net in which she'd caught his hat. She stared at him wide-eyed, saying nothing, which gave him a moment to decide how to proceed. He knew he must look ridiculous, spluttering for breath, his hair plastered down and water streaming off his face, so he mustered a chagrined smile, held up his Hardy Houghton and wheezed,  
"...Wull-least...didn't drop my rod..."  
He dragged an open palm down from brow to chin in an ineffective attempt to dry his features.

Sam broke into a grin behind her fingers, eyes flashing with amusement but also looking relieved that he wasn't ill-tempered or put out at this insult to his dignity.  
She came forward to assist.  
The freezing temperature of the water had extinguished his ardour, and now he knelt humbled, docile and a little supplicatory before her. She strode on, slender, bare-legged, sun-dappled, a _Sprite_ wading effortlessly through the river towards him. He was entirely captivated, gazing up at her, slack-jawed and breathless.

This unprecedented admiration in his expression brought Sam up short - ' _Had **she** been the cause of his accident? Had showing a little leg distracted him and made him lose his footing?'_ With a smile of dawning comprehension she saw a new opportunity.  
Rather than a brisk, pragmatic hand up, Sam stood above him and offered a mischievous, coquettish proposal,  
"Can I help you up...? ...Or shall I join you? Looks very refreshing."  
Foyle stared at her open-mouthed, mesmerized as Samantha, holding the fishing net like a trident, lowered herself into the water and settled onto her knees in front of him. She gave a small gasp as the river rose over her pert breasts, and looked him frankly in the eyes. Then she laid her still warm and dry left hand on his cheek, leaned in close and kissed him.  
He responded with pure male instinct, wrapping his free arm around her and, with the strength of a drowning man, pulling her hard against himself. He deepened the kiss, until this hot, wet, sensual point of contact was all they were aware of.

After some time Sam drew back, astonished at his passion, and breathed,  
"... _Golly!_ "  
When he opened his befogged blue eyes to her she gulped, and whispered shakily,  
"I knew it would take some sort of catastrophe for you to show you'd noticed me."  
"...Catastrophe other than the _War_...?" He asked, short-winded himself, with a lopsided grin.  
"Apparently!"  
Both were shivering with the thrill of new discovery, and they kissed again, long and slow, only pausing for further confessions and clarifications.  
"I- _ehm_ , thought you'd brought the pie for Andrew…"  
"Andrew? Of course not. He's in L-London, you said."  
"W-well, he wrote… Ssaid he'd be down next week...with good news… Thought it concerned you...and him…"  
"No…," she shook her head, "I haven't had a wword from him since he...well, you know."  
"Aaand then your decision to leave the guest house...and Adam…"  
Sam smiled shyly,  
"It was your bringing the _trout_ that decided me. I don't suppose you had any such intention, but...it felt like being properly courted."  
"With fish...rather than _flowers_...?" He angled his head.  
" _Um-hm_. You even tipped your hat."  
"Did I?" He looked all innocence and confusion.  
"You did."  
Her arm was around his shoulders, and she brushed her lips against his cheek, murmuring,  
"What was I to _think_? And it...made me feel...really rather special. Not just...useful."  
"Well, you _are_ …special. Samantha. Vvery special."  
Moved to joyful tears, she kissed him boldly, with all the admiration, love and affection he'd inspired in her over their five-year partnership.

They held each other close a while, as best they could given each was also holding an item of fishing equipment. However, Sam soon began shivering for reasons other than the triumph of love at long last attained. The flow of the cold current pushing at Foyle's back and the hard rock under his knee were becoming more noticeable to him as well.  
And then the trout, still hooked on Foyle's line and tired of waiting around for its inevitable fate, began nosing against them, curious and impatient. With the line gone slack it had plenty of freedom of movement, and had made two complete circumnavigations of this new feature in the watercourse.  
Sam felt the trout bump her bare elbow under the water, looked around and giggled softly,  
"We've been lassoed!"  
Foyle assessed their predicament, "... _Mm_ Best cut the line. Never untangle it."  
"Oh, I don't mind." She was rewarded with his rare broad grin.  
Then she pleaded for their fellow captive, "You'll r-release him, won't you?"  
He raised a contrary eyebrow, but seeing the tender query in her eye, answered softly with a sympathetic smile, " _Ehmm_...Yeah...Sssuppose it's only fair..."  
Letting his rod sink to the river bottom beside him and taking hold of the floating filament he carefully drew the fish closer.

The trout, resigned to facing the end stoically, gave only a few flicks of its tail in half-hearted resistance. Sam watched in fascination, never having been so close to a live trout in its own element. Foyle, whispering a coaxing reassurance to the creature, cradled its glistening, twitching body in one arm and calmly, kindly worked the hook out of its mouth. Then he sent it on its way. Samantha happily saw the trout swim off, though it appeared dazed at this unexpected pardon.

Foyle hung the barbed hook under a pocket flap on his olive-drab waistcoat and retrieved his nippers. He snipped the tippet close to the fly, then raised his split-cane rod out of the water.  
" _Excalibur!_ " Sam teased.  
"W'...as good _as_." He answered in mock earnestness, and began reeling in the line. There were no snags or kinks and he was able to wind the whole length of it onto the reel, the final loops of leader and tippet twirling around and over their heads, showering them with diamond droplets.  
Sam's teeth began to chatter.  
"Right, up you get. Go wrap yourself in the r-rug in a sunny patch." He ordered.  
"Are you s-staying in?" She laughed.  
" _Em_ , n-no, but I've got... _h-half_ the river in these waders and it'll take me a while to get out. Not to mention the 'inelegance' of it. Prefer if you _d-didn't_ watch." He admitted with a wry half-smile.  
She gave him a chattery kiss that soon calmed as his warmth flowed into her.  
" _Mmmmmh_ …" she hummed gratefully against his lips.  
With a hand on his shoulder and using the fishing net as a staff, Sam slowly stood up.

Foyle was treated to a view of her rising like a mythical _Naiad_ , as good as naked with the thin fabric of her frock pasted to her body, her skirts free of the belt again and clinging around her legs. Sam watched him watching her, enjoying his adoring gaze and unashamedly flaunting her figure. His smile slid sideways, betraying inclinations she'd never seen from him, that he'd never allowed to show in her presence before. She took the rod from his hand and turned away, blushing with a new sense of pride and self-confidence.

 _tbc..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** FW 1945: Not Fish They Are After, Chapter 3

 **Author:** Wolseley37

 **Disclaimer** _ **:**_ _Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle and Samantha jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen and Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks. No infringement is intended.

 **Response/Feedback:** Always appreciated!

 **A/N:** The novel  The Wife of Martin Guerre was written by Janet Lewis and published in 1941 in America. The historical trials regarding the identity of Martin Guerre took place in Rieux and Toulouse in 1560.

* * *

Chapter 3

Foyle sighed in happy disbelief, his eyes following her as she waded unhurriedly, for his benefit, towards the bank. Sam left his rod and net by his creel at the water's edge, and donned his hat as she strode up the slope to their picnic spot. Smiling at her newfound cockiness, he bowed his head with the pleasure of it, then shuffled forward awkwardly on his knees to shallower water.

He hadn't fastened the straps of the hip boots, so simply sat down, his back to the shore, and worked a leg out of each one by sliding, kicking, prying and pushing. He finally squelched free of them, emptied out several gallons of water, twice, and heaved each one away onto dry land. He exuviated his socks, wrung them out and flung them after the waders. Thus unencumbered, he got to his feet with a comparative sense of lightness and stepped up onto the grassy bank.

Samantha, sitting in the warm sunshine with her knees drawn up, wrapped in the thick blanket and grinning at him, clearly had watched his struggles with unvoiced amusement. Foyle stood dripping, hands on hips, alternately looking down at himself and smiling up at her. He was quite aware that his own anatomy was revealingly defined by the soaking wet summer-weight wool trousers, though there was nothing untoward going on there at the moment.

Neither spoke, both anticipating something not yet decided on.

He thought he'd best remove his outer layers, so with a self-conscious sniff he shrugged off the waistcoat and laid it open on the grass, pulled apart the knot of his tie and let it fall, opened his collar and top shirt buttons, slipped his braces from his shoulders, and finally, with a bit of an effort, pulled out his shirttails. That was as far as he dared go, other than removing his wristwatch. He made a mental note to take it into the jewellers, and set it down with the other things to dry.

Still dripping and treading a little heavily now, he made his way up the slight slope to Sam and dropped onto the grass beside her, legs outstretched. Bright-eyed, she looked covertly at his long, pale, well-formed feet, which she'd never seen before, and decided she liked them very much.

"Warming up?"  
" _Umh-hm_."  
"Hungry?"  
"Famished. You?"  
"Wull, seem to have worked up an appetite, yes."  
Sam chuckled and then leaned towards him until their shoulders touched, turning her face to his for a kiss. He obliged, and brushing his thumb over her cheekbone, remarked,  
"...Haven't called me 'Sir' _once_ today."  
"You noticed?"  
"I did."  
"I don't want to call you 'Sir' any more."  
"...Nnnor ' _Dad_ ,' I gather." He squinted an eye shut, acknowledging his earlier mistake.  
"No! ...Good lord!" She chuckled again lightly.  
He swept the tip of his tongue over his lips, and offered,  
"...'Christopher,' then."  
"Christopher." Very pleased, she moved even closer, noting that his steel-and-slate grey curls had already sprung up, nearly fully recovered from their drenching. She pressed her mouth on his. He responded eagerly, caressing her golden hair and slender neck, until his fingers met a thin, delicate strap on her shoulder. He drew back in surprise, and his attention was caught by a fluttering shape behind her. It was Sam's floral-patterned frock, draped over a tree branch in the warm air. She must've slipped, or rather, peeled it off when his back was turned. Which...meant that she had very little on, under the tartan rug.  
Sam saw his eyes flick away and back to hers. She told him with only slight embarrassment,  
"Well, it will dry faster off than on. It's only practical."  
He quirked his mouth in amusement,  
"W'oh...quite approve of practicality." Then added tentatively, "Wwe should perhaps both be... _more_ 'practical.'" And raised his brows slightly.  
Her eyes grew big, and her cheeks reddened in confusion. ' _Was he suggesting…?_ It _was_ an exceptionally quiet, private spot by the river. They'd neither seen nor heard another soul all afternoon, but… _goodness_! What _was_ he suggesting?' Sam felt her breathing quicken.

Christopher dropped his gaze, tucked in his chin and gave a small chuckle at her cogitations, letting the moment pass. Then he reached across her for the picnic basket, lifted it over and opened its lid with real interest.

Realising belatedly that her hesitation had been an unintended answer, Sam explained,  
"You're...usually trying to talk me _out_ of risky things. It's rather a novelty to hear you try to talk me _into_ trouble. ...Christopher."  
He passed her a Spam sandwich without comment, other than pursed lips.  
Unwrapping the paper, she added lightly, "...A _welcome_ novelty."  
"Nnoted." he said, and bit into his sandwich. Luckily he had swallowed before her next remark.  
"It wouldn't bother me if you removed your trousers."  
His hand froze halfway to his mouth. Seeing his wide-eyed stare, she quickly clarified,  
"To hang them up to _dry_."  
He looked sideways at her, thinking, took another bite, and chewed in a ruminative way.  
A moment later, Sam informed him nonchalantly,  
"You're calculating the odds, aren't you." - apparently confident that she could now read his mind. She took a healthy bite of her Spam and pickle.  
He swallowed, "Am I? The odds of what, precisely?"  
"Of anyone happening to walk by." She said around the mouthful, fingers held politely over her lips.  
" _While_ …?" He drew out the syllable, eyes narrowed.  
"While our clothes dry!"  
"Right." He nodded, then took in a breath, "Wull, from my experience, the odds are _low_ , but...wouldn't risk your reputation, Sam."  
"No, I know you wouldn't." She smiled a little wistfully.  
He added in an undertone, "Nnot for the sake of drying some _clothes_..." And gazed out over the river, tongue probing his inside lower cheek.  
That gave her pause.

Christopher observed that Sam remained thoughtfully preoccupied as they finished their sandwiches, munched a handful of nuts and raisins, gnawed on apples, and then shared the thermos bottle of hot tea. After returning the cup to her with thanks and a kiss on her cheek, he lay back on the grassy slope, fingers laced behind his head, ankles crossed, the better to dry his shirt and trousers. His eyes closed in contentment, edged with an expectation of her response.

Pleasant birdsong filled the minutes of quiet between them.  
He was unaware of the admiring interest with which her eyes traveled slowly up and down the length of his body.  
Finally Sam did speak, but not on the subject he had assumed and rather hoped she'd been contemplating.

"If I were _Bertrande_ , I don't think I would've done it - accused my husband of being an impostor."  
Christopher took a moment to trace her mental path from his provocative remark to this statement, and smiled to himself. He called up from his memory the details of the novel and the very old French court trials on which it was based, and answered without opening his eyes,  
"But he _wasn't_ her husband, and she knew it. In her heart."  
"He was everything she _wanted_ in a husband - and a much better one than _Martin Guerre_ had been: kind, respectful, reasonable. A good Master of the house. She was happy with him. She loved him, for a time, until she began to doubt him. And her young son loved him. _Arnaud du Tilh_ was a good father."  
Sam frowned in puzzlement at the woman's motivations, and flung out a hand in frustration at the turn of events,  
"Why throw away all that... _good_ for...for the sake of an old vow, made when she was a child of _eleven_ , to a man who, for all she knew, was long dead?"  
Impatiently she twitched the blanket up onto her shoulder again,  
"The result being that she caused herself, and her family, great harm, and harmed the entire village."  
"Wull, people took their vows seriously back then." he said drily. "And her husband _wasn't_ dead."  
"He'd _abandoned_ her. And his child. For eight years! Why wasn't _Martin Guerre_ held accountable for _that_?" Turning with righteous indignation, Sam stared down at her impassive companion.  
"It...wasn't the matter that was before the court. The hearing - the _second_ hearing - was only to determine _which_ of the two men was the real _Martin Guerre_."  
" _Humph_. It _should_ have been put before the court. It was just as much a crime as impersonation."  
"I'd tend to agree."  
She sighed,  
"Poor _Bertrande_. She risked everything in bringing the truth to light. ...Only to be cruelly spurned, and blamed for the entire ordeal, by her real husband. Was that Justice?"  
"Wull, Sam, it wasn't the _court_ that caused those results." After a long inward breath he said quietly, "...However the _novelist_ suggests that _Bertrande_ made the public accusation for - more than anything _else_ \- the sake of her own _soul_." He added in a soft voice, "...And that would've been a very real concern for such a person."

Raising a hand to shade his face, he asked in an aside,  
"...Would you pass me my hat, please, Sam?" A beam of sunlight was flashing uncomfortably over his eyelids, through the leafy tree branches.  
" _Hmm.._." She considered this point, reaching for the old green trilby and setting it on his chest.  
Christopher placed the hat low over his brow, giving himself a damp and pleasantly cool refuge.  
Shifting her position, Samantha let the blanket fall from her shoulders as she leant back, propped on her hands, airing her slip and undergarments in the warmth of the sun.  
"She was _deceived_. They all were. Even the judges, in the first trial." She furrowed her brow in thought, "And...after _confession_ , wouldn't the priest have given her _absolution_ for her sins - adultery and all that? Wouldn't that have... _cleansed_ her soul? Eased her conscience?"  
"W'll, I'm hardly-." He stopped abruptly, then rephrased his response. Sam looked down at him, curious.  
"...I wouldn't know. Ask your father."  
Samantha was puzzled by this deflection, but then the very idea of discussing the book with her father put her off, and she let it go.  
"Poor woman! I wonder what happened to her after that. She could hardly go back to her home, to live with a man who despised her. Two young sons who resented her..."  
She shifted down on the rug to rest on her elbows, and suggested hopefully,  
"...Perhaps she went to live in a convent."  
" _Em_... _Perhaps_..." he answered indulgently. Though privately he feared it was more likely the woman had met a sad end.

Sensing Sam's voice closer to his ear, Christopher lifted his hat to look at her. Samantha lay propped on her elbows next to him, a shoulder-strap fallen onto her arm, her strawberry-blonde hair glowing in the swaying sunbeams, her cream-coloured silky slip undulating over her curves and valleys, banded with darker, still wet patches.  
The picture of temptation, and she seemed entirely unaware.

Then she turned troubled dark brown eyes to him and said,  
"I love you, you know."  
It sounded a little melancholy, and he tensed with foreboding.  
Sam rolled onto her side to lie against him, an arm across his chest. He moved to allow her head to rest on his shoulder, and set aside his hat.  
"Is...that a problem?" He asked lightly, hiding his worry.  
"I hope not. It rather depends on you."  
Unwilling to dislodge her so that he might read her expression, Christopher lay still, only lifting his hand to hold and caress her bare upper arm.  
"What are your concerns?" His voice was hushed with apprehension.  
"That you won't want to confide in me. That you'll think me too...inexperienced."  
"Too...young?" he clarified.  
She ignored that.  
"And that you'll not see me as a true...soulmate. I couldn't marry _anyone_ under those terms." The last was stated with certainty, but was undercut when she added,  
"Of course..., you haven't _asked_ me."

Christopher gnawed on his bottom lip, but answered promptly, "I...wouldn't want a marriage under such terms either."  
"Then you - you ought to _start_."  
"St-start?"  
"Confiding in me." She stopped as though awaiting his instant response, but then amended,  
"Well, that is, if you _had_ thought of marrying me. Or am I being 'presumptuous'?"  
The corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement.

Christopher surprised her by rolling onto his right side, displacing her unceremoniously onto her back on the rug, and staring down at her with an earnest expression.  
"Wull, you have to _realise_ , Samantha, that I've been labouring under a misconception about you since the Spring of 1940 until this very afternoon."  
"What's _that_?" She asked, half-amused and half-alarmed.  
"That you were a sensible young woman who wouldn't be at _all_ likely to consider the idea of a suitor such as _myself_. So I've really only thought of _marrying_ you, Samantha," he swung up his left forearm to look at his watch, which of course wasn't there, "...well,...for the past _hour_." He widened his eyes at her with a comical grimace.  
Sam grinned nervously, fidgeted her fingers together, and looked up at him,  
"Well, would you like to? Or do you need more time?"  
Then seeing the new, hopeful tenderness those words kindled in his eyes, her smile ignited into radiance.  
"W'Sseems you've just proposed to _me_. ...In which case, _em_ … Would be... _honoured_ to become your husband, Miss Stewart."

Sam stared up at him in amazement, then she threw her arms around his neck and drew him down into a loving kiss. Christopher braced himself with his left hand planted on the rug beside her head, not quite trusting himself to lie half on top of her. He soon pulled back to whisper a heartfelt vow,  
"... _Do everything in my power to give you a happy life, Samantha._ "  
With tear-filled eyes she answered, "We'll make a happy life _together!_ It takes two, you know."  
"I _do_ know." He said it smilingly, but Sam saw him swallow a lump in his throat, and decided a change of mood was called for.  
"Christopher?"  
" _Hmmm_?"  
"Just...how low... _are_ the odds of anyone walking by…?"

Startled eyes locked onto hers, and she gave him her very first attempt at a come hither smile. It was more a mix of over-excitement and nerves.  
He swallowed again, for quite different reasons,  
"Wull, _uh_ , ... _vvery_ low. _Em..._ others prefer the area closer to the high weir and-."  
Before he finished speaking she had rolled towards him and pressed the length of her body against his, an encouraging hand caressing his broad chest and shoulder. Few words were needed after that.

At first they took their time in getting to know each other in this new way, kissing, whispering and cautiously exploring. But passion soon accelerated matters, and took them perhaps farther than either had intended. Sam's knickers were around her knees, and Christopher's damp shirt had been discarded. His trouser flies were straining with the pressure of his rigidity as his sensitive fingers gently aroused her. She was breathlessly approaching her second astonished climax when they detected a not very far off tread over dry leaves and twigs. They broke apart and both froze, on the alert, staring wide-eyed at each other, listening.

A distant older male voice called out jovially,  
" _Foyle?! How many have you bagged? I've got five!_ "  
" _Damn!_ " He bolted upright in panic, grabbed his shirt and hat and got to his feet in seconds.  
"So _bloody_ sorry, darling. Wait here. I'll intercept."  
He sprinted away under Sam's startled gaze, barefoot, braces flapping, slapping on his hat, pulling on the shirt and doing up the buttons. At the last moment he veered to snatch up his creel from the water's edge before hastening away towards the voice.

Her heart pounding in real alarm, Sam quickly retrieved her knickers, adjusted her brassiere and smoothed down her slip. In a crouching stoop she made her way back to the tree branch to fetch her frock, and scrambled to pull it on over her head, all the while tensed to catch their conversation.

"...Afternoon! Well, only got three today. Good size though. Have a look at these."  
"I say, Foyle, what's happened? Been bathing with your kit on?"  
She heard his forced chuckle, "Yep. _Em_ , misstepped. Went arse over teakettle off the ledge."  
"That's not like you. Didn't lose your rod, I trust? -Or the _trout_ , god forbid?"  
"No-no-no. Let me see yours. Oh, that one's gotta be five pounds! Well done."  
Sam heard him make admiring noises and exchange further banter over flies and bait with the unseen angler, and then finally refuse both a lift home and a pint at the pub.  
"Well, mind how you go, Foyle. Old buffers like us should take care."  
Sam could only imagine his reaction to those words of advice.

When he at last got away from the interloper, Christopher returned to see Samantha sitting demurely on the blanket, as neat and tidy as a Sunday school teacher at a Church picnic, pretending to read the novel. He lowered his creel into the water again, and on his approach she put the book down to greet him with a sunny, wholesome smile.  
He gave her an apologetic frown and eye roll as he sat beside her,  
"You all right, sweetheart?"  
"Yes. Quite all right."  
"I'm sorry. My, _er_...calculations were wrong, clearly." He pushed his hat off his brow and stared out over the river, dejected and annoyed with himself.  
"Well, at least he was considerate enough to make some noise. Who was it?"  
"...Nnnnot going to tell you." He tilted his head but still wouldn't look at her.  
"Why not?" The pitch of her voice rose a little in surprise.  
He raised his eyes heavenward, "So that when you meet him on some other occasion you won't have to blush."  
Sam bit her lip, and smiled, "That's a very good thought. Thank-you, Christopher."  
She gave him a kiss on the cheek and held onto his arm, saying briskly,  
"Well, no harm done!"  
But he bowed his head, "Really...shouldn't have… _em_. My fault."  
Sam stared closely at his profile, and took a breath to say softly, "It takes two. We're in this together, and I was a willing participant. _More_ than willing. In fact _I was the one_ who... You're not going to let this change your mind, are you?"  
At last he looked at her, brows contracted, "Change my mind? About _you_?"  
"About us?"  
He turned fully towards her and caressed her hair, "No, sweetheart! Course not! Just regret the... _um_."  
"Well, the interruption, yes! But not… before, I hope? I certainly don't regret it. Quite anxious for more, actually..."  
Before he could reply she gave him an ardent kiss that nearly landed them flat on the rug again. He couldn't help but respond. However Christopher soon took hold of her upper arms and disengaged before they got carried away.  
"Samantha...! Think we'd best, _em_ , pack up and get home."  
She smiled mischievously, but agreed, "Yes. Of course you're right."  
Then Sam gazed around happily, "...It's been a _lovely_ afternoon!"

Christopher surveyed his wet belongings scattered on the grass, at their discarded shoes and the upended picnic basket, at the state of his clothes and Sam's once again somewhat tousled hair, and with a crooked grin, nodded,  
"L-lovely. Vvery memorable."

 _tbc..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** FW 1945: Not Fish They Are After, Chapter 4

 **Author:** Wolseley37

 **Disclaimer** _ **:**_ _Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle and Samantha jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen and Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks. No infringement is intended.

 **Response/Feedback:** Always appreciated!

 **A/N:** Things get wet again, and rather hot!

* * *

Chapter 4

As it happened the chaos resulting from their fishing expedition was simply transferred to his front hall, when the quiet and privacy of his home inspired them to continue what they'd started. Christopher had managed at least to get the three trout, which he'd gutted and cleaned at the riverside, into the cool of the cellar, and had cast a determined eye at his waders in hopes of turning them inside out in the kitchen sink or on the back steps. But Samantha had other, more enticing ideas, and he abandoned those plans in favour of hers.

Before he'd reached the waders lying in the hall she had taken his hand and led him with big eyes, and without a backward glance on his part, up the stairs to the landing. When they paused to kiss and embrace, he realised how very damp his own layers of clothing still were. And feeling an unappealing cold clamminess in his flesh, he decided a warming wash would be in both their interests.

Christopher gave Sam a bright look and tilted his head invitingly,  
" _Ehm_ , come and see this. Just fitted last month." He led her into the bathroom and indicated the new shower bath arrangement of gleaming nickel-plated pipes, levers and shower head, and the curtain rod encircling the bathtub suspended from the ceiling.  
"Good heavens! How on earth did you manage it? These materials haven't been available for years."  
"Well, _uh_ , helped a chap with a legal problem, or should say, an _illegal_ problem, and he insisted on showing his gratitude. The set was salvaged from a bombed house."  
"Gosh!" Sam smiled her enthusiasm, " _You_ might as well have it as the _next_ chap. Have you tried it?"  
"Of course. It's...very efficient. Very...effective."  
" _Hm_! If you'd had this when I was bombed out of my billet, when my hair was long and awkward to wash, you'd never have got me _out_!"  
He smiled at the thought.  
"Shall we, _um_ , try it...together?"  
Her eyes lit up in surprise, "Oh! Both of us...at the same time?"  
"Y'well…, might save _water_." He suggested, appealing to her patriotism, but his eyebrows gave away a different motivation.  
"...All right. You get in first, Christopher, and I'll join you in two shakes."  
"Jolly good." He agreed with a peck on her cheek.

It was several minutes later and Christopher was feeling considerably more comfortable, cleansed from top to toe and warmed by the cascading hot water. He heard the bathroom door open and close, and saw Sam's shadow pass across the curtain. She must've stripped off in one of the bedrooms, he realised, as she instantly parted the curtain and presented one long trim leg, lifted high over the edge of the tub. The image of a French _can-can_ dancer briefly flashed into his mind, inspiring an infatuated smile as he took her hand and helped her to step in. There was no time for nerves or anticipation. Samantha was there, standing naked with him, and he was speechless.

Again Sam saw the wonder and admiration in his sky blue eyes, his look now so intense that she had to take shelter from it in his embrace. Then the sensation of his warm, wet skin against hers, softly furred over strong dense muscle, and the rising intruder nudging insistently at her thighs, overwhelmed her and drove her to her last refuge - the safety of his kiss. His mouth gave hers a confident welcome, while his hands reassured her with tender caresses.

As they kissed, Christopher turned with her in a slow waltz step so that she felt the spray falling on her back and flowing down to her feet. His fingers played in her hair as the water soaked through, lifting it and brushing it back from her temples. Then she felt his hand still as he plucked something from a strand, and he chuckled softly,  
"Proof. You're a river sprite _and_ a woodland fairy. Brought your familiar with you."

Samantha opened her eyes to see his hand held away from the shower, a red ladybird walking over his fingers. She giggled and the tension left her body. Christopher lifted the insect to safety, letting it walk onto the curtain rod. He smiled warmly into her eyes and moved his hand to her shoulder, then down until it rested over her breast. She gazed trustingly at him, turning to resume their kiss as he massaged her nipple into a hard bud.

Feeling the persistent supplicant below, Sam widened her stance to grant its petition, and her lover surged forwards with a gasp, bracing his hands on her bottom. Between her thighs he was perfectly angled to press up against her sensitive flesh, and he began a slow, gentle, rhythmic stroking so dizzying that her jaw slackened and her mind reeled. Sam clung to his shoulders, hips rolling with his, shocked at her own body's very active response to his motions. Christopher gave a pleading, thrilling groan by her ear and she breathed desperately,  
"Please! Yes..., please…"

In a sudden move he took her by the waist, pressed her against the tiled wall and lifted her thigh onto his hip, supporting it with his forearm. The cascading water splashed up off his shoulder and chest onto her face in a torrent of droplets, adding to the symphony of sensations. Breathing deeply, Christopher began a controlled penetration, pushing upwards then withdrawing, listening for her sighs of pleasure or apprehension. Samantha pressed her lips on his shoulder, his neck, and sought his mouth, joining her moans with his, granting him permission for everything. He reached to lift her other leg, holding her easily on his thighs. Sam wrapped her legs around him, pleading wordlessly. And then he thrust into her.  
Both cried out at the breakthrough, paused breathlessly, and groaned with ecstasy as he stirred and resumed, unable to restrain their urgent coupling. Sam's keening and Christopher's moans rose in rhythm with their writhing to a clamorous pitch, ceased in the deceptive still suspension of plateau, then plummeted into the depths of riotous completion.  
Gasping for air, Sam turned her face away from the shower spray, seeking shelter on his other shoulder as she recovered. And chest heaving, Christopher rested his forehead on the wall tiles a moment. But soon he stood upright, if a little shakily, mindful not to crush his trembling partner, holding her close, nuzzling into her neck,  
" _Oh god, darling Sam...?_ "  
" _Unnhhh…?_ " It was all she could manage.  
" _All right…?_ "  
" _Mmmmm…_ " She turned to meet his lips, and he eased her legs down as he softened and withdrew, until both her feet were between his on the floor of the bath. He held her firmly in his embrace, supporting her in case she was unsteady, their kisses blending with murmurs of love.  
Samantha felt a warm gush between her legs, and pulled back to look down,  
"Oh!"  
Her exclamation had a touch of fear in it, and Christopher followed the direction of her eyes. The flow was more red than pink, but he assured her,  
"...Perfectly normal, sweetheart. Let me help…"  
He placed her once again with her back to the warm falling water and knelt down, advising, "Just put your hand on my shoulder, darling…" and he took a soapy washcloth to her thighs and above, splashing away the effusion of their consummation. A thin pink trickle continued, but he rinsed and wrung out the cloth, rose up to her and smiled,  
"We'll... _um_ , get dried off and go rest...on the bed, all right?"  
Unobtrusively he gave himself a quick wash and rinse, but before he reached to turn off the shower the hot water supply suddenly ran out and they got a brief frigid dousing, making them both jump and then laugh.

He pushed aside the curtain and stepped out onto the mat. The bathroom was filled with steam and condensation to a degree he hadn't seen since Andrew was in his mid-teens. He quirked his mouth to one side in private amusement.  
Christopher handed Sam a towel for her hair, which she wrapped up in a turban, then he took another and helped her out of the tub. He placed the large towel around her shoulders, pulled her close and began rubbing it very gently over her skin.  
Sam chuckled softly,  
"I'm not made of porcelain, you know."  
" _Mm-_ indulge me. Just this once, m'love."

He continued, softly drying her neck, shoulders, her back, each arm, her breasts - pausing to kiss each nipple - moved down her ribcage, and knelt as he reached to dry her bottom, cupping both hands around it and massaging.  
Sam felt her breathing deepen and quicken, hypnotized by his touch. He dried the delta of her mound, smiling as the little golden curls sprang up under his hand.  
He finished her legs and ankles, instructing her with a single word,  
"Up," to lift each foot as he tended to it, then returned his focus to her centre.

She rested a hand on his shoulder again and Christopher ran the towel slowly upwards between her legs and pressed it there a moment. He placed a kiss on her navel and looked up reverently into her heavy-lidded eyes.  
When he took the cloth away there was still a small pink stain, but they silently agreed it was not to be worried over. Then he surprised her again - bent and kissed her there, flicking his tongue over and between her delicate folds - and Samantha gasped, shutting her eyes in bliss.

A moment later Christopher was on his feet, tossing the sodden towel over the shower curtain rod and reaching back for a fresh one for himself. He stepped over to the small window and pushed it open to let the steam escape and help air the room, then returned to the bath mat they were sharing. He began toweling off vigorously, starting with his head.  
Sam protested in alarm,  
"Oh, now you're too _rough_! Careful, darling. I do love your curls!"  
He gave her a wry grin, "Wull, enjoy them while you can."

She stepped back to give him space, and after drying her own hair, watched as he worked his way down. Feeling a delicious lassitude in her limbs, she leant against his dressing gown hanging on the door. Sam quite enjoyed the show, smiling a bashful appreciation of his nearly classically-proportioned body and well-formed legs. Biting her lip, she hardly dared to glance at his splendid manhood, though her curiosity won out several times.

Having dried himself off thoroughly Christopher came to embrace her, eyes shining,  
"We'll, _um_ , rest a while, and then have dinner, _hm_?"  
Samantha luxuriated in his warmth, his strength and the very feeling of being naked in his arms,  
" _Mmmm…_ Yes."

Now Christopher led her by the hand into his bedroom, across to his bed, where they slipped in under the covers together. They shared a pillow, and he pulled her closer. Gazing lovingly into each other's eyes for some minutes, it was Christopher who spoke first,  
"You're... _um_...very quiet."  
Sam nodded, looking rapturously at him. He smiled crookedly, eyes twinkling, very pleased with himself. With a happy sigh he moved to rest his chin on the top of her head. But a moment later he gave a silent chuckle, drew back, touched her hair and then showed her his fingers.  
There was the red, black-spotted ladybird again.  
Samantha giggled and asked him dreamily, "How many spots...?"  
He rotated his hand as the beetle walked across his knuckles,  
" _Umm_ , seven, I think."  
"Hmm, seven years good luck." She murmured, then added coyly, "...Or is it seven _children_?"  
"Would be very lucky, too..." He said quite complacently.  
The ladybird paused on the back of his little finger, opened its wing covers and flew away. He returned his hand to her bottom and Samantha's eyes closed blissfully. Soon they were both asleep.

 _tbc..._


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** FW 1945: Not Fish They Are After, Chapter 5, Conclusion

 **Author:** Wolseley37

 **Disclaimer** _ **:**_ _Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Christopher Foyle and Samantha jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen and Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks. No infringement is intended.

 **Response/Feedback:** Always appreciated!

* * *

Chapter 5 - Conclusion

She woke first, about an hour later, to find herself spooned against him, her bottom nestled into his lap. His left arm lay heavily over hers, his hand covering her abdomen protectively. Listening to his slow breathing, feeling his exhalation on her shoulder, Sam smiled in wonder - she had never imagined that her polite, buttoned-up, very proper boss, and then quietly amusing, respectful friend, was capable of such passionate, thrilling love-making. Her mind wandered over the scene of her rather bold move at the river, their first kisses and confessions in the flowing current, and then his ready acceptance of her unwitting proposal - and she realised that he would probably _never_ have asked her, never have courted her in the usual way. To her it had seemed almost inevitable that they would be together…, yet he hadn't considered it? Well, Sam decided with a determined set to her lips, she would do everything in her power to ensure that he'd never have cause for a moment's regret.

Chaos was not Samantha's natural state, and while Christopher slept on, she had not only sorted their clothes and picnic items, but had tended to his gear - waders draining on the back steps, fishing waistcoat hung up to dry, and she'd even plucked the hooked fly from under the breast pocket flap and returned it to the little tin box she'd found in one of the other pockets. Sam had vegetables ready to cook for their dinner, the fish prepared for baking, and the cherry pie in pride of place on the dining room table. It was going on seven o'clock and still a glorious bright day outside the kitchen window.

Eventually a very buoyant Christopher came downstairs in his dressing gown, saw that the front hall was cleared and spotless, and found Sam in the kitchen with her back turned, wearing his son's outgrown old dressing gown, a bright tartan-patterned one that never failed to remind him of Christmas. He saw several covered pots and dishes on the counter.  
It had been a while since he'd embraced a woman in his kitchen, but he found to his delight he still had the knack for silent approach and surprise.  
" _You've_ been busy, sweetheart." He murmured into her right ear, arms snaking around her and squeezing.  
"Oh!" She cried with a satisfying jump, nearly scolding him but too happy to do so, "Christopher!"

Sam turned from the stove, throwing her arms around his neck,  
"I was just thinking of starting dinner, if you're r-."  
He delayed his answer with several minutes of very contented kisses.  
" _Mmm_ , how can I help...?"  
A little breathless, she laid her hands on his shoulders,  
"Everything's ready. I'm just not sure about your oven. I remember it took longer than I expected when we had the coq au vin-."  
"-Wwithout the 'vin.'" he grinned. "Yeh, we can turn it up a bit more...or _not_ , and _let_ it take a bit longer…" one raised eyebrow offered suggestively.

Sam was in a dilemma, wanting to give vigilant attention to the first meal she prepared for him as his fiancée, and wanting to please him in every other way. In addition to that, she worried she might be a bit sore... _down there_.  
Christopher saw her lip-biting hesitation and a frown as these unspoken concerns played across her features. He reassured her,  
"Nunno, just say what you prefer, darling."  
"Well…"  
His wide open eyes regarded hers frankly. When she still hesitated he gave her an encouraging smile and a blink.  
"I… I just want the dinner to be perfect." To her mortification she felt the sting of tears forming in her eyes.  
Christopher swallowed, reached past her to turn up the cooker's dial, and drew her over to sit on his lap on a kitchen chair, facing the oven.  
He said in a soft voice, "Then we'll tend it together. But, _em_ , just remember, Samantha, I've been putting up with my own... _very_ inadequate cooking for years. I'll be very appreciative." He kissed her cheek tenderly, "Now. _I've_ found it works well to let the oven come up to full temperature, and then put the pan in. Is that how _you_ do it?"  
She nodded briskly, and blinked the tears away, "I'm sorry, I don't know why-."  
"W'oh, it's no wonder. You've made a very foolish choice today, taking on a...difficult, demanding, bad-tempered 'old buffer'…"  
Sam was now grinning at him shyly.  
"...Should really try to talk you _out_ of it, but…" He blinked away some tears of his own, "Can't let you go _now_ , Sam... Never admitted to myself before today how much I…" He took in a breath, "...Loved you." He rested his brow on hers and amended, "... _Love_ you."

Samantha's heart soared as she understood what she'd been waiting for, and what underlay her near frenetic activity - a lingering doubt of her worth to him, a doubt that she had inspired his real love. So...she _didn't_ have to prove herself, make herself useful every day…  
"You love me." She whispered, her vision filled by his warm blue eyes.  
"Course I love you."  
"I can...burn the dinner, and you'll still..." She stated to herself.  
"Still love you."  
"I can...lie in bed til ten."  
"Why not." He agreed with a moue.  
She couldn't actually think of any other examples of egregious wifely failings just at the moment.  
"Of course...I _won't_ , but…"  
"Still love you even if you did." He kissed her cheek again, then frowned in deep thought, "Nnever actually _asked you_ , Sam, but… Will you marry _me_?" His brows rose hopefully.  
She compressed her lips, very moved, and answered quickly, "I will. I _will_ marry you, Christopher."  
"Because...you love me?" He squinted an eye shut.  
"I love you very _much_!" She said earnestly, then broke into a grin at his expression.  
"Just checking." He gave her a lopsided smile, then looked vaguely around the kitchen, "Haven't anything that would do as a _ring_ , I'm afraid. ...Stop in at the jeweller's Mond'y?"  
"If we've nothing else to _do_ …" she teased, her spirits quite restored.  
She glanced at the oven, "Shall we put the fish in? Must be up to temperature by now."

Things went swimmingly after that.  
They were sitting at the dining table, Christopher at the head and Samantha to his left, just finishing the main course as they relived the comical misadventure that led up to their watery first embrace, when the front door suddenly rattled open. For the second time that day they froze and stared at each other guiltily.

But Andrew must've heard the tail end of their shared laughter because he didn't call out his usual greeting. Still in his RAF officer's uniform, he walked cautiously into the sitting room, stared through the archway at the cosy scene, eyebrows rising over widening eyes. He checked his watch as if that might somehow help him make sense of what he was seeing. Then his expression deepened into a suspicious frown.

They set down their cutlery, waiting.

Andrew's eyes swept back and forth between them, finally settling on Sam, who was now red-faced under his glare. His disbelieving rhetorical question was aimed at his father,  
"...Is that my dressing gown?"

"Hello, son. Good to see you."  
Sam thought she'd best leave it to them to get through the awkwardness, met Christopher's eyes, and then continued watching the exchange mutely.

Andrew came through to stand at the end of the dining table where he could confront them both, again fixing his eyes on her but asking his father with an accusatory edge,  
"Not even a _ring_ …?"

"It's at the jeweller's."

Sam almost smiled at his quick answer. Technically it wasn't a lie.

Andrew digested that a moment, and twisted pursed lips to one side in unconscious imitation.  
"How _long_ have…?" Still frowning, he shook his head slightly, unable to comprehend.

"How long have we _known_?" his father said emphatically, steering the question away from anything tactless.  
"Not long." Then Christopher took her hand, holding it on the table, and tilted his head, "...But it was inevitable."  
Sam broke into a pleased smile gazing at him. She decided it was time for her to speak up, though she tried and utterly failed to keep a straight face,  
"Foyles, you know, ...are hard to resist."  
He grinned back at her, " _Wull, you_ managed to hold out for six years."

Andrew rolled his eyes at their romantic raillery, still undecided on how he ought to react.  
Then Sam turned to him with her trademark enthusiasm,  
"Come on, Andrew! Sit down, I'll fetch you a plate. There's fresh-caught trout, carrots and potatoes...!"  
She rose from the table, pausing to smirk privately at Christopher as she added,  
"...And I've brought you a pie!"

The End.


End file.
